Then without warning, the scintillating sun went out, and left Pluto once more the God of Darkness. It came on again, as the rear element extended and shortened the focal length once more to a degree slightly less than the length of the complex lens. It oscillated, and it wavered, and it danced from spot to spot on Pluto. Where it touched with perfect focus, it seared the ground and sent up huge gouts of flame and tortured earth as the whole output of the sun bore down upon a small circle. It hit the Sulphur Sea, and sent great steaming clouds of vapor floating across the twin cities. It cut a sear across the center of Bifrost Bridge, and cut the famed bridge in the middle of the span. Bifrost broke and fell into the River Styx--and like the famed tale of Ragnarok, the falling of Bifrost Bridge preceded a period of terror. The dancing spot of pure solar hell settled down, and with the characteristic perversity of uncontrolled things, it came to a perfect focal point of some six hundred feet in diameter, under which spot everything went molten. Without waiting for any further information, the astronomers at the Pluto Observatory made rapid and precise calculations, and issued orders to the effect that all people must evacuate along the expected trail of destruction. It was their quick work that stopped the casualty list short. And Pluto, writhing in one tiny spot from terrific heat, began to cool everywhere else. Men looked at one another in fear as the cooling breezes began to sweep across the face of Pluto. The production of uranium stopped, as did everything but the overworked communications system. * * * * * John McBride glared at the telephone. "They should know by now," he snapped, "that we can't take time to use the phone with all of this devilment going on." Tommy handed him a spacegram. "Someone knows," he said cryptically. McBride tore the 'gram open. "Oh, great ache! Tommy, pass the word on the lens network. Tell 'em to cut the electro-gravitic warp, too. The thing is focused right on the middle of Pluto and is cutting a six-hundred-foot swath across the face of Pluto like an oxy-atomic torch cuts butter." "Can't we refocus it?" asked Tommy anxiously. "Not without moving the stations. Or playing hob with the warp-generators. Either way would take a week to adjust. Tell Adkins to pull the big switch and hope for the best. Oh yes! Tell every mother's son not to tinker with the P-T network. When we get this mess cleaned up, we're going to need the placement again and there's little sense in letting the stations run free. Thank the Lord the warp will tend to align them again, once it goes on, or we'd have a six-month's space surveying job to do." The lens-network phone rang, and McBride answered. "John? This is Fuller on 9. We just found Carlson under the alphatron. He's knocked colder than last week's wash and he's got a bad alpha burn."